POE TRY.
IN MEMORY OF THE CHILD-POET, L. L.*
(Who died at School, February 18th, 1907, aged ten years.) THIS was a song the great Musician made, So brief, so brave, one smile and all was said: A full tide from the far nntravelled main, Landward it drew, rose, shone and sank again.
And now the stricken heart of memory bleeds,— Now where the bright wave sang we gather weeds Sea-fragrant, crushed,—dreams of the dazzled eyes, Of wind-swept waters and gold-dropping skies :
The weeds how frail, the song how perfected ! " We live a little while," the child-voice said, Breaking,—still brave "Mother, I did my best." And then they knew the fluttered heart bad rest.
Such rest is sleep. The waking fawn would roam Fresh pathless moors, green wonder-vales his home, Still quaffing loveliness from lakelets pale, Mirrors of morning in her purple veil: Infinite loveliness, not rest he craves ;
Fawn of the fells, wing'd swallow of the waves, Glad elf of dawn, child-mariner was be, Lo, there his barque, white on the glittering sea!
NEWMAN HOWARD.
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